


Make Game of That Which Makes as Much of Thee

by Melibe



Series: The New Plan [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Beaches, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fanart, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Heaven and Hell both suck tremendously, Hinduism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Jealousy, Love Bites, Miscommunication, Musical Instruments, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon, Public Display of Affection, Referenced BDSM, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Wings, but they kinda suck at comforting each other, fashion of the 2070's, flies and maggots, titles from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: Gabriel has long admired Beelzebub’s business demeanor: shrewd and skeptical and utterly ruthless. He’s just as fascinated by their wanton hunger to be broken down andruinedat his hands. What a complicated, gorgeous being. What a blessing to be with them.“I love you,” he murmurs against their neck.“Bite me,” snaps Beelzebub.So he does.--Lately Beelzebub has been finding that each time they meet Gabriel on Earth, it’s harder to return to Hell. Their cynical certainty has started to crack, admitting the idea that there might be something good, and it’s not here. The marks on their neck are a tangible reminder. Beelzebub had wondered if the bleakness of Hell would erase them, but no, the bruises remain, and now Beelzebub fingers them like rosary beads.Blasphemy, they think,but against Heaven or Hell?





	1. One Thing is Certain, and the Rest is Lies

**Author's Note:**

> My brain: Wouldn’t it be funny if Satan saw a hickey on Beelzebub and freaked out?  
Also my brain: No, it wouldn’t be funny at all.
> 
> Takes place some years after [Playing Games With Loyal Servants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203495/chapters/47873587), though you don’t have to read that for this one to make sense.
> 
> Now with art!

“Harder,” whispers Beelzebub, and Gabriel lifts his head in surprise.

It’s a common refrain from his lover, but he’s used to hearing it when he’s buried inside them, skin to sweat-slick skin. _Harder_ is what Beelzebub snarls whenever he tries to savor the moment, whenever his lovemaking grows too sweet. They lap up all the cruelty he can dish out, but they barely tolerate his tenderness.

Now the two of them sit fully clothed on an empty beach, in the stillness of a late night that’s about to rebrand itself as early morning. The waves are mere ripples, hissing quietly up the sand and back again. Beads of fog decorate the feathers of their outstretched wings.

They’ve fit themselves together like puzzle pieces. Gabriel’s long legs are bent like a spider’s, with Beelzebub nestled between them, arms hooked around his knees. The demon’s wings press into Gabriel’s chest and sweep out past his legs, over the sand. His wings follow the same curve, bending at the tips so white feathers interleave with glossy black. The contact makes them both shiver.

Stretching their wings together is a rare pleasure, since they usually meet indoors. Whose idea was it to come to the beach? Gabriel doesn’t remember now, but he’s glad they did. He loves Beelzebub’s wings, ink-dark with iridescent highlights. He loves to show off his own, spotless and pure. Side by side, white and black, they’re a visual affirmation of the New Plan—to set the might of Heaven and Hell against the recalcitrant Earth.

But the archangel and the demon prince haven’t been talking about the Plan tonight. They’ve just been sitting. At first, Gabriel sat immobile because the concept of cuddling still spooks Beelzebub. As time passed and they seemed to relax against him, he risked leaning down to kiss their neck. They’ve been wearing their hair short, which Gabriel likes. There’s really nothing they could do with their body that Gabriel _wouldn’t_ like, but he’s especially fond of the short hair since he figured out how sensitive the back of their neck is. He licks the skin there now, smiling at their sharp intake of breath.

“_Harder_,” Beelzebub insists, again. “Zzuck. Bite. Leave a mark.”

Gabriel pulls them closer as he thinks about it. It’s not like he’s never been rough with them before. He’s fucked them into the floor, gagged them with his cock, eaten them out until they cried. But he’s always been careful not to leave marks. When he’s angry, the sheer holiness of his touch is painful to the demon, and causing deliberate damage on top of that just seems rude—adding injury to insult.

Then again, that does sound like something Beelzebub would like. “Are you sure?”

“I’m zzure. Unlezz you’re _afraid_?”

Gabriel knows this goading tone all too well. Beelzebub craves violence, and although Gabriel likes to cover it up with a chummy mien, he has a superior capacity for violence. He was a celestial warrior before he was a celestial bureaucrat, and spent much of his existence preparing for battle. It’s no hardship to satisfy the demon prince’s darker desires.

He does wonder why they’re asking for this now, after all their time together, but the pale skin above their collar calls to him with moonlit urgency. He presses his mouth back down, sucking fiercely this time. Their fingers dig into his thighs and their wings spasm with pleasure.

“Yezzz, like that,” they gasp. “More.”

He places a soft kiss over the bruise, mostly because he knows it will irritate them. “Ask nicely, Beelz.”

“Fuck you, azzhole, more pleazze.”

Gabriel chuckles. “That isn’t really very nice.” His wings are moving now too, fluttering with excitement. He combs his fingers through Beelzebub’s feathers, pulling enough to make them cry out and arch against him. “I zzaid pleazze. Zztop teazzzing!”

Gabriel has long admired Beelzebub’s business demeanor: shrewd and skeptical and utterly ruthless. He’s just as fascinated by their wanton hunger to be broken down and _ruined_ at his hands. What a complicated, gorgeous being. What a blessing to be with them.

“I love you,” he murmurs against their neck.

“Bite me,” snaps Beelzebub.

So he does.

* * *

Not many people have occasion to know this, but angel hickeys are distinguished by a dusting of gold around the usual purplish bruise: either a golden halo in the shape of the angel’s lips, or a ring of golden teeth-marks. Beelzebub has brought some of both kinds back to Hell. They press on the marks as they work, reviving the ache for a strange kind of comfort.

Hell is miserable, and one of its most insidious torments is the conviction that everywhere else is equally miserable. Spend enough time in Hell and you’ll be certain there’s nothing good in Earth or Heaven, either—you were only deluding yourself to imagine otherwise.

For thousands of years, Beelzebub has enjoyed the perverted satisfaction of knowing that everywhere is wretched and everyone is unhappy, while Hell is the only place to acknowledge and embrace these facts. It’s a fine thing to reign over such a kingdom. (In _his_ name, of course, always in his name.)

But lately they’ve been finding that each time they meet Gabriel on Earth, it’s harder to return to Hell. Their cynical certainty has started to crack, admitting the idea that there might be something good, and it’s not here. The marks on their neck are a tangible reminder. Beelzebub had wondered if the bleakness of Hell would erase them, but no, the bruises remain, and now Beelzebub fingers them like rosary beads. _Blasphemy_, they think, _but against Heaven or Hell?_

“Lord, we’re all assembled in the Perjury Room, when you’re ready.” At the sound of Dagon’s voice, Beelzebub quickly turns up their collar and summons a cloud of flies to their neck.

“Didn’t I zzchedule Hypocrizzy for thizz meeting?” Hell’s conference rooms are all damp, cramped, and poorly-lit, but Hypocrisy has the best chairs.

“Sorry, it wasn’t available. Someone tried to change the light bulbs and started a fire.”

“Fine,” sighs Beelzebub, grabbing some papers from their desk. “Let’zz go.”

This is the meeting where Hell’s higher-ups are finally going to hammer out a timeline for the New Plan, so Beelzebub is trying to muster up some enthusiasm. The New Plan was their own idea, after all, even if they invented it mostly as an excuse to keeping meeting with Gabriel and a distraction for the Big Boss. Satan had been _very_ moody after Armageddon failed to go off, disappearing into the Pit for years. The New Plan cheered him right up; he’s even been joining some of the meetings.

He arrives in Hypocrisy just after Beelzebub and Dagon. The room is already too full with half a dozen Dukes and Lords, but Hell adjusts itself to fit the Adversary. He fills half the space, his bulk dimming the light.

“My Lord,” says Beelzebub with a deep bow. When they straighten up, their clothing slips a little. Maybe they forgot to keep the flies around their neck, or maybe the flies had their own preference for Beelzebub’s face and hair. For whatever reason, something is now visible that shouldn’t be.

A bruise in Hell is nothing, just another shadow among many. The sudden glint of gold, though—that makes the demons blink. Most of them would not dare question Beelzebub, but _he_ sees it too.

“Beelzebub,” he rumbles. “What. Is. That.”

“What izz what?”

“Come here.” Before they can obey, one clawed hand shoots out and circles their arm, dragging them close. He looms over them, although the size difference is not so great as you might expect. Beelzebub is a mighty fiend in their own right, and proximity to _him_ draws out what is most demonic in them.

He tilts up their chin and leans down to press his face into their throat, breathing in and out like a furnace. “There is gold on your skin, and you reek of angel.”

“I told you I’ve been meeting with Gabriel to dizzcuzz—”

“To discuss. You mean to fuck.” He pushes his huge thumb into the side of their neck, right over the largest bruise, and pain explodes from the point of contact. “You let him mark you?”

Beelzebub swallows around the pressure, fighting to ignore the vicious voice in their head that says _you wanted this, you were asking for this_. “Zzure, we had zzex. I’ve been tempting him. It helpzz convinzze him to work with—”

“Temptation? That’s not what it looks like. That’s not what it smells like.” He hooks a claw into the medal at the base of their throat and drags it down in one fierce stroke. It hits the floor with a dull clang, followed by the red sash that marked their office, torn in two. Beelzebub stares at them dumbly. When another swipe of his claws shreds the rest of their clothes into rags at their feet, they feel hardly any more naked.

The air in the room is thick with excitement and fear. Punishment voyeurism may be one of Hell’s best entertainments, but it comes with a hefty dose of _that could happen to me at literally any second_. Poor loyal Dagon must be especially terrified, and even Hastur, who’s been angling for a promotion, looks a bit nervous.

Satan’s voice cuts like a whip. “Did you bend over for him, Beelzebub? Did you go down on your knees for him?”

_Yes and I fucking loved it_, while true, is not going to improve their situation. Beelzebub bites their tongue hard as his hand wraps around their head, digging into their memories. “You did. You _did_. Did you forget that you’re _mine_?”

Finally Beelzebub shakes off their shock and remembers how to lie, wielding their bloody tongue like any proper demon. “No, I _am_ yourzz, Lord, now and forever. What I did with the angel meanzz nothing. I’m your lieutenant. Your right hand—”

“_If thy right hand offend thee_,” he intones, and the assembled demons writhe at the scriptural quotation, or maybe at its implication. “Show me your wings, Beelzebub.”

There isn’t nearly enough space, but Beelzebub spreads their wings and by Satan’s will the room accommodates them.

_Shit_, they think as he reaches for them. _This is gonna hurt._


	2. Daub his Visage with the Smoke of Hell

Gabriel whistles at his celestial work. He’s in the midst of a multi-level reorg; the New Plan will require quite a few angels in different positions than before. A stack of performance reviews just arrived from the Cherubim, so he squares the papers on his immaculate desk, adjusts background harmonies to an optimal volume for productivity, and begins to read.

He’s settled into his groove, humming along to an Elgar concerto, when Michael approaches and taps a fingernail on his desk. He looks up in mild irritation. “Is it urgent?”

She tilts her head, inviting him to judge for himself. “The Adversary has appeared on Earth.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.” Gabriel and Beelzebub agreed it would take at least another hundred years to flesh out their strategy and restructure their respective armies. Beelzebub doesn’t talk about their boss much, but Gabriel had understood he was on board with the New Plan.

Of course, demons aren’t known for working well together. There could be any amount of discord and factionalism down there. But surely Beelzebub would have alerted Gabriel if the big guy was likely to take matters into his own hands. Wouldn’t they?

Gabriel feels suddenly uneasy, but he brushes it off and wiggles his hands in the air like a bogeyman. “Is he trying to restart Armageddon by showing up and looking scary?” 

Michael ignores the sarcasm. “No. He says it’s personal.”

“You’ve spoken to him?” Gabriel frowns. If Michael is taking this seriously, he’ll have to do so as well. The two archangels have always been close, completing each other’s thoughts and mirroring each other’s moods. A human might peg them as twins. “Michael, I know he’s held a grudge against you since the War, but if he wants to suggest a duel _now_—”

“It’s not me he wants,” says Michael evenly. “It’s you.”

“Me? Why?”

“He didn’t say.” She lowers her voice. “I’m guessing it’s about his lieutenant.”

Michael knows that Gabriel's relationship with Beelzebub has gone far beyond professional. She’s been discreet with this information, but sometimes when he comes back from a meeting on Earth he catches a half-amused, half-worried look on her face. Now the amusement is all swallowed up in worry.

Gabriel is just puzzled. “Why would he want to talk to me about Beelzebub?”

“Think about it this way,” she says. “Your partner’s ex is pissed at you.”

“Their ex . . . ?”

“Don’t you remember them together, before the Fall? Fighting side by side in the War?” Michael nearly throws up her hands in frustration. “My God, Gabriel, didn’t you ever stop to think that Beelzebub and Satan were an item?”

He hadn’t. Not really. He’d been aware of it on some level, but— “That was a long time ago.”

“Why don’t you tell that to _him_, and see how far you get.” Michael has quelled her agitation; her voice is cool and clipped. It sounds like she doesn’t care. Gabriel is hardly a psychoanalyst, but he knows Michael, and he can tell she cares very much.

So he tries to soothe her by pretending he doesn’t care either. “I suppose I will.” He stands and brushes off his jacket. If the big guy wants to talk about Beelzebub, Gabriel isn’t one to shy away from the conversation. “Where is he?”

“On the Broomway,” says Michael, offering her hand.

“The what?” says Gabriel, taking it.

She tugs gently, and they’re standing on an enormous sandy plain in the North Sea, just off Foulness Island. Low tide has left the land exposed but far from dry, and the mud sucks unpleasantly at Gabriel’s shoes. He’s not sure if the gray twilight is the time of day or just the thickness of mist. A crab scuttles onto his foot. Gabriel kicks it off, then raises his eyes to see the reason he’s here.

The Devil’s skin is red with black veins. His eyes are sunken pits of hatred. The saltwater around his clawed feet hisses up as steam and Gabriel wonders, briefly and irrelevantly, if that’s the source of all the surrounding fog. The heat that rolls relentlessly from his monstrous shape ought to feel welcome, in a damp place like this, but instead it’s suffocating. His horns seem to stab upward in an attempt to rend the heavens. He’s holding something lumpy and dripping.

Gabriel doesn’t want to know what it is. He doesn’t care to spend any longer with this deviant beast than absolutely necessary. He claps his hands together in a brisk greeting. “Let’s make this quick; I’m a busy angel and I’m sure you’re needed down Below. What’s on your mind?”

Sharp teeth bare in an approximation of a smile. The voice grinds and grates. “Gabriel. You’ve touched something of mine. You’ve _marked_ something of _mine_, and I’ll not tolerate it.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” says Gabriel cheerfully. Sometimes he really is dense, but more often he finds ignorance to be a useful stalling tactic.

“I mean Beelzebub,” snarls the beast.

“Beelzebub doesn’t belong to you.” Gabriel knows this is too confrontational even before he catches Michael’s sidelong look, but honestly, how dare this degenerate thing claim to own the Lord of the Flies?

“They do.” Red hands reach out to show their wet and twisted bundle. “Well, they did.”

If Gabriel had ever eaten anything in his life, he would likely have thrown it up when he recognized the mess that falls from Satan’s claws to the ground.

Wings. A pair of satiny black wings, once proud and perfectly groomed, now so broken and plucked as to be almost shapeless. They’re drenched in ichor and attended by a cloud of mournfully buzzing flies.

Gabriel has no more banter. No more _tactics_. His own wings unfold and beat the air as he strides forward, ignoring Michael’s attempt to restrain him. His voice reverberates with thunder. “Dragon. Monster. Devil. What have you done? _Where is Beelzebub_?”

“Oh, you want _all_ the pieces?” The Adversary waves his arm and a naked, huddled form appears beside the broken wings. The demon’s hair is sticky and matted, their face buried in their arms, their back a ruination of bone shards and torn flesh. And more flies. They shift slightly, tightening in on themselves, and Gabriel feels a rush of relief that at least they are alive.

He moves toward them, but a great whip of hellfire crackles through the air, barring his approach. “Your turn, Gabriel,” sneers its wielder.

“No,” says the archangel, his eyes glowing with storm-light as he opens his hands to the sky. “_Your_ turn, monster.” 

The first strike of lightning and the first lash of the whip are nearly simultaneous. The resulting fireworks would blind a human observer. Gabriel steps to the side, wanting to ensure that nothing he does will further harm Beelzebub, and the whip cracks again so quickly that its tip grazes his arm.

The pain from even this slight contact is excruciating. Gabriel grits his teeth against it and sends more lightning across the sand, forcing his opponent away from the crumpled Beelzebub. For a moment he almost has an advantage, but then he’s pushed back as the whip nearly wraps around him.

The tide is rising. Water runs over their feet and pulls at their ankles, and they use their wings to steady themselves. Satan burns red and Gabriel burns white and the fog can touch neither of them, though it swirls all around. The hellfire whip licks a thread-thin wound across Gabriel’s chest.

Michael watches Gabriel give ground. He is a mighty warrior, one of Heaven’s finest, but now he faces a foe whom Michael herself only cast down with all the Host at her command. And the Devil has grown more terrible since then.

“Aren’t you going to help him?” comes an angry buzzing voice from her side. The archangel turns. Beelzebub has crawled across the mud, dragged themselves to their feet, and is now glaring at Michael through the filth that streaks their face.

_By Heaven_, she thinks, _this demon prince is a piece of work_. Stripped of their clothes and their wings, wracked with pain, they still emanate such power and ferocity that Michael almost steps back.

“I will bear witness,” she answers them. “But I have not been given authority to raise my hand.”

“Bloody _uszelezz_ angelzz,” Beelzebub spits. “Then give _me_ your blezzed zzword.”

Michael looks at the two combatants. A bolt of lightning has seared off one of Satan’s horns, but Gabriel is on the defensive now, all his energy focused on evading the deadly snap of the whip.

She draws her sword from the ether and passes the hilt to Beelzebub. They hiss in pain when their fingers touch the holy weapon, muttering, “Fuck, that’zz hotter than Gabriel’zz prick,” something Michael will spend the rest of eternity wishing she could unhear.

Horrific wounds notwithstanding, Beelzebub hefts the sword and limps up behind Satan. There’s no posturing, nothing dramatic, they simply slice straight and deep across his hamstrings. He howls in surprised agony, his legs buckling.

Beelzebub drops the sword and stumbles toward Gabriel. He spreads his wings like a shield, shouting urgently, “Get behind me, Beelz!”

“Rude,” Beelzebub sniffs, but they dive into the shadow of his wings and shut their eyes. They know what’s coming. They’ve incapacitated the Adversary just long enough for Gabriel to gather his strength and _smite_ with a vengeance.

For a fraction of a second, a few square feet on the Broomway are lit up with a divine glory so lethal that every crab, worm, and amoeba in the vicinity experiences ecstasy, then vaporizes. Even Gabriel is surprised by the extent of the holy wrath he lets loose.

It works. The Adversary is gone.

Gabriel turns to face Beelzebub, his hands still glowing faintly, long thin burns still smoking in half a dozen places on his body. The rising water swirls around their knees now. Beelzebub sways forward and collapses against Gabriel. He wants desperately to hold them but he doesn’t dare touch their back, so after a moment’s thought he scoops them up, one arm under their legs and the other around their shoulders, high enough to avoid most of the wounds. They rest their head in the crook of his neck.

“Beelzebub,” he says. “Are you—” He doesn’t know how to finish. He knows that _are you okay_ is a stupid question.

“I’m zztill me,” they mumble. “And I zztill want you. Fuck everything elzze.”

He kisses their hair, even though it’s caked with mud and blood, and watches Michael slosh forward to retrieve her sword. He notices that her hands look very bright. He thinks of the explosion of light, beyond what he’d ever expected to call down. “Michael, did you—”

“They call the Broomway England’s deadliest path,” she cuts in coolly. “Unexploded ordnance everywhere. A foolish place to pick a fight.”

Gabriel gives her an uncertain smile. “Ah, yes.”

“If you don’t step on a bomb, you get swept away by the tide.” She spreads her wings and rises into the air, shaking water from her feet. Gabriel does the same, still cradling Beelzebub against his chest. He wants to take them somewhere safe, to make sure nobody ever hurts them again. He’d bring them back to Heaven, if he could. But he’s having a hard time thinking straight. His whole being aches with exertion, and his burns sting like—well, like hellfire.

Michael opens her mouth, then closes it as two new angels arrive on the scene, their wings slicing through the coastal fog. It’s Sandalphon and Uriel, with naked blades in their hands.

Gabriel blinks at them, shifting Beelzebub in his arms. “You’re a little late.”

“No,” says Uriel. “We aren’t.”

Sandalphon smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Broomway is so cool and creepy: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/the-broomway-essex-england
> 
> I updated the tags; our sweethearts may not be okay now but I promise they will be by the end!


	3. Stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short; I got caught up making art, which is now posted in the first chapter and is hopefully some consolation for this chapter’s brevity. There are definitely two more full-length chapters to come!

“Copycatzz.” Beelzebub’s tone is scornful as they chafe Gabriel’s hands. He hasn’t spoken since the angels cut off his wings. Two blades, one synchronized stroke, and he’d fallen from the air, still holding Beelzebub. Together they’d crashed into the sea.

For Sandalphon and Uriel it was: job well done, about face, back to Heaven. Michael waited a moment before following them, long enough to blow a kiss to the couple in the water. A boat appeared beneath them, and a milk-white blanket settled around their shoulders.

Beelzebub hates the blanket, which smells like angels who aren’t Gabriel and stings their back, but at least it’s a change of pace from being naked and cold. They don’t like the boat either—it’s shaped like a fucking _swan_, and they’ve half a mind to turn it into a water strider or a whirligig beetle. For now, though, all their attention is on Gabriel. His eyes are unfocused. He isn’t bothering to breathe. Beelzebub has been rubbing his hands because they can’t think of anything else to do. They’re _tired_.

“I haven’t Fallen,” says Gabriel suddenly.

Relieved to hear his voice, Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “No, you’re zztill holy az fuck.”

His mouth makes a funny shape, almost like a laugh, but no laugh is forthcoming. Beelzebub looks him over critically. The archangel’s once-perfect clothes are singed and torn; terrible blisters show through the holes. Beelzebub could probably heal them, if they weren’t so damn tired. Gabriel might even be able to heal himself—he’d once effortlessly removed a burn Beelzebub gave him. But Beelzebub hadn’t used a whip of Hellfire.

They wonder what his back looks like, but it doesn’t seem worth moving the blanket to check. There wasn’t a drop of ichor on either angel’s sword. Holy weapons cauterize their wounds.

That ought to leave Gabriel in better shape than Beelzebub—who is aggressively not thinking about what happened to them in Hell—but he’s still staring blankly into the fog and shivering. “You look like szhit,” says Beelzebub.

“Yes, well, one of us is a glutton for punishment, and it’s not me,” he answers shortly.

Beelzebub glowers. “Juzzt becauzze I like the way _you_ hurt me doezzn’t mean I like to be tortured.”

At that, Gabriel’s eyes snap back to meet theirs. He looks stricken. His gaze moves to their neck, and he reaches out to trace the gilded bruises there. “If I’d known what would happen, I never would have done this,” he murmurs.

Beelzebub shrugs. They haven’t decided yet whether they regret it.

“I thought he’d destroyed you.” Gabriel’s voice is grim. “And I wanted to destroy him. Not send him back to Hell. Obliterate him.”

His fingers trail down Beelzebub’s bare chest, and he’s just angry enough that the light touch stings their skin. They lean into it gratefully. “At leazzt you got to fight him. I owe that dick Zzandalphon a zzolid punch.”

Gabriel’s hand drops to their thigh and his gaze turns back out to sea. Beelzebub gets the impression that he, too, has been trying not to think about certain things, so instead of saying anything else, they press into his side and pull the blanket tightly around them both.

Eddies toss and swirl the boat, gentle waves slap the hull, and fog swallows everything else. Michael left them neither motor nor oars, but Beelzebub doesn’t hold that against her. (They have other, better reasons to be pissed off at Michael.) They could send the boat speeding across the ocean with a snap of their fingers. The problem is, neither they nor Gabriel seem to have any idea where to go. They are still a demon and an angel, powerful, immortal, but in this moment they feel like lost travelers, unmoored and far from home. They cling to each other, wrapped in a miracle, drifting on the North Sea.

Some time later, Beelzebub notices the hum of an approaching motor, and a bobbing light that’s so obviously angelic they jump up and shout, “Hey fuckerzz, no take-backzz! He’zz mine now!”

“My goodness, I really don’t see the need for such language,” says a bemused angel, peering at them from the other boat’s deck.

Gabriel blinks in surprise. “Aziraphale?”

“Ah shit, she didn’t say Archangel Wanker would be here too,” complains the demon at the helm.

Beelzebub almost falls overboard. “_Crowley?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUR HEROES!!!
> 
> (I love Bee and Gabe, obvs, but they are antiheroes AT BEST)


	4. Still A Garden By the Water Blows

“The Bentley's a hundred and fifty years old, angel. I think it’s understandable that I don’t want the upholstery stained with . . . whatever all that is.” Crowley waves toward Beelzebub, who gives him the evil eye. Crowley throws the horns to ward it off.

“Technically, this incarnation of the Bentley is a good deal younger,” the angel—Aziraphale—points out. “However, I’d be happy to . . .” His tentative gesture suggests a miracle.

“I’ll take care of it,” says Gabriel, looking embarrassed that he hasn’t already done so. He concentrates for a moment, and the mess covering Beelzebub disappears, along with the lesser mess on Gabriel.

“Fine. One more thing.” Crowley stands in front of his car. “Like I told Dagon, I don’t want a fight. Don’t want any new enemies. She said she was just asking me to pick up the pieces—”

“Not _all_ the pieces,” murmurs Gabriel. Beelzebub knows he’s thinking about the two pairs of wings left on the Broomway, a swirl of black and white to be scattered by currents and scavengers.

Crowley’s still talking. “But I have to ask, is anyone coming after you? Because I’m really not keen to get involved.”

Beelzebub glares. “Cowardly _zznake_.”

“Hi.” Crowley tips the sunglasses down his nose.

Aziraphale is positively bristling, but before he can speak up in his demon’s defense, Gabriel answers the question. “No. They’ve done their worst.” He sounds as tired as Beelzebub feels. “They won’t come after us.”

Beelzebub isn’t so certain of that, but right now their mind is on a more immediate threat. Following Crowley’s boat to shore was one thing. Riding in his car is quite another. When he opens the door, they shake their head. “I’m not getting in.”

“Why not?” asks Gabriel.

“I tried to exzecute him, didn’t I?” Everyone looks blank, so Beelzebub spells it out. “I azzume he wantzz to return the favor.”

“Thought I was pretty clear that I just wanted to be left alone,” says Crowley impatiently. “You’ve done an excellent job of that, by the way. Really top-notch ignoring-Crowley work.”

Beelzebub folds their arms. They don’t move.

Crowley sighs. “Look, I don’t care, all right? Stay here if you like. But if you _want_ to come, you don’t have to worry about me. I swear to Sa—”

“_Not to him!_” they almost shout.

“Er, then I suppose I could swear to G—”

“No.”

He hisses in exasperation. Then he looks at Aziraphale, who is already raising his right hand, offering an upright open palm. Crowley smiles softly, presses his left palm against the angel’s, and turns back to Beelzebub. “I swear by the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, that I will not attempt to harm you, except in self-defense.” He pauses. “Or in defense of those I love.”

Now Aziraphale is wearing the same soft smile. Beelzebub sneers at them. “How revolting. Fine. I’ll get in your vehicle.”

Gabriel helps them slide into the backseat, shifting the blanket and arranging them in his arms so they’re half-lying, half-sitting, and nothing is pressed against their back. The other two climb in front, and the car starts to move. Music erupts from the air.

Beelzebub hears the words, _You got mud on your face, you big disgrace_. They frown. “Is this vehicle possessed?”

“No,” Crowley says, and “Yes,” says Aziraphale at the same time. They share a look and another smile.

“Ugh,” grunts Beelzebub, shoving their head into Gabriel’s chest. “Ow,” he answers, and shifts them carefully away from the worst of his blisters. Then he starts petting their hair.

For the second time that night, Beelzebub lets themselves drift, lost in the motion of the car, the darkness outside the windows, the touch of Gabriel’s hand.

“Wine,” Crowley is saying, when the motion and the music stop. “I need all the wine.”

“How about that Chenin Blanc from the Couralts?” Aziraphale is already out of the car, holding the door for Beelzebub while talking to Crowley. “We should get food, too. Calories are important in recovering from trauma.”

“Angel, I’ll buy you food anytime. You don’t need a reason.”

“I meant for _them_,” says Aziraphale primly. Crowley grins at him.

Beelzebub climbs out of the car, still absent-mindedly clutching the blanket around them. They’ve ended up somewhere very dark, with no streetlights, no city lights, no moon. The stars are bright overhead. Soft hidden lighting near the ground illuminates the edge of a garden, with a pebbled path leading through bushes and flowers to a neat little cottage.

“This isn’t London,” says Gabriel.

“Oh, he’s just as sharp as ever,” says Crowley, slinking down the path. “Don’t cut yourself on that one, Lord Beelzebub.”

Beelzebub’s eyes narrow. Aziraphale quickly ushers both Beelzebub and Gabriel to the front door. “We’re on the outskirts of Seaford, near Eastbourne, you know. We moved down here after the Brentry kerfuffle.” He guides them into a sitting room with a couch and several chairs. “Going on thirty years ago now, wasn’t it, Crowley?”

“Thirty-two,” the demon says. He’s in the kitchen, on the other side of a pass-though, setting out glasses and uncorking a bottle.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” urges Aziraphale, so Beelzebub drops the blanket, grimacing as it sticks briefly to their back before falling to the floor. Crowley and Aziraphale manage to stare without quite staring. Beelzebub knows they’re a sight. Stark naked, cleaned up by Gabriel’s miracle but still wearing his bruises around their neck and Satan’s claw marks in their back. And, of course, the flies.

Aziraphale is the first to find words. “Er, Lord Beelzebub, would you like some clothing?”

_I’d like my wings back_, they think wretchedly, but they have far too much pride to say it aloud. They squint at the fussy angel. “Only if it’zz very different from what you’re wearing.”

“Well, Crowley lives here, too.” Aziraphale crosses the room to take a glass of wine from the demon and kiss his cheek. “Be a dear and see what you can find for them. I’ll order us some food.”

Crowley rolls his eyes fondly and ambles into the back of the house with his wine. Aziraphale absorbs himself with a screen in the kitchen. Gabriel, meanwhile, has settled on the couch. He beckons to Beelzebub. “Come and lie down, Beelz. Let me see what I can do for your back.”

“What izz thizz, the houzze of bozzy angelzz?” grumbles Beelzebub. Gabriel just smiles and pats his thighs.

Beelzebub hesitates for a second. As long as their wounds remain raw, a wild fancy whispers: _Maybe wings can be reattached. Maybe wings will regenerate._ But they can’t, and they won’t. Beelzebub knows this.

They throw themselves across Gabriel’s lap, face down, and grab a pillow. They wonder what their back looks like. It’s got to be ugly, crawling with flies. The buzzing of the adults and the squirming of the maggots has been a balm of sorts, but it's not going to heal anything.

When Gabriel touches their shoulder, the flies swarm up around his face. He doesn’t even flinch; he’s used to them. “This might hurt,” he says.

“No szhit,” Beelzebub mutters. “If you think I can’t take it—”

“I know you can take it,” he says calmly. “I just want you to know it’s coming.”

Then Gabriel’s fingers are pressing on exposed bone and muscle, pushing it back into place, smoothing rough edges, mending tears, and pulling layers of skin over all. His hands are big enough to cover most of Beelzebub’s narrow back, so the sensations are everywhere at once, relentless, overwhelming. They bury their face in the pillow, biting and screaming.

They realize that he’s finished only when he’s been stroking their hair and rubbing their shoulders for some time. “There, it’s all done, it’s over,” he croons, and Beelzebub thinks about biting him instead of the pillow. Instead they twist around to look up at him, still breathing hard.

He looks altogether too pleased. “Was it good for you?”

“Fuck off, azzhole,” Beelzebub answers, precisely because there _had_ been a frisson of pleasure amid the pain. “Your turn?”

He nods, and helps them sit up in his lap. They look him over, considering. “Back?”

“No need.” He shrugs. “The cuts were clean. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Not—not physically, I mean.” Beelzebub can tell he’s trying to treat his double amputation with clinical dispassion. So they dig into the blisters on his chest, giving him something else to focus on. He sits stoically through their rough healing, though once when their nails scratch too deep, he snaps, “Don’t be a dick about it.”

“No, that’zz your job, izzn’t it?” they toss back. When his injuries are gone, they turn to his clothes, miracling the rips away one at a time. The last tear is low across his belly, and Beelzebub slides their fingers through the gap in the fabric, tracing his abs. “I might leave thizz one,” they whisper. Gabriel makes a soft hungry sound, pulling their bare thighs more tightly around his hips.

Before they can take things any further, they’re startled by the sharp clear ring of a bell. “That'll be the food,” says Aziraphale, emerging happily from the kitchen. He opens the front door and brings two large paper bags inside.

“Did you juzzt miracle food to the door?” asks Beelzebub incredulously. “Why not onto the table?”

“Oh no, it was delivered by drone. Wonderfully handy for takeout, although I do miss the people—I’d gotten to know so many dear drivers. They’ve all found rewarding new careers, of course.” He unpacks the food onto a coffee table that appears promptly when its presence is expected. Then he bustles back to the kitchen for plates and forks and the glasses of wine that Beelzebub and Gabriel haven’t yet touched. “I ordered from this _gem_ of an Indian cafe in Brighton. Their curries are absolutely sublime.”

“Good pair with the white, too.” Crowley saunters back in with a bundle of clothes in one hand and his now-empty wine glass in the other. He drops the clothes on the couch next to Beelzebub as Aziraphale refills his glass.

Beelzebub stands up to shake out the fabric, and Gabriel’s hand slides from their shoulder to rest on their hip, like he can’t stop touching them just yet. It appears that Crowley has brought them two articles of clothing: sleek black overalls that flare at the knees, and a metallic jacket made of several layers of mesh. “What the hell izz thizz?”

“Overbells and an overshirt,” he says with a shrug. “It’s considered a nice outfit these days. Seemed like your style.”

They eye him dubiously. “Overbellzz? Are you having me on?”

“It’s the seventies again, innit? I wore these to one of the centennial Queen tributes last year. Got lots of compliments.”

Gabriel admires the mesh weave of the overshirt. “I know you haven’t gone clothes shopping for a few decades, Beelz, but trust me, this is classy.”

“Fine.” They step into the overalls, glare at them until they fit, then shrug on the shirt. They tug the sleeves to the right length, but leave the bottom hanging to their knees.

“It’s usually worn waist-length,” explains Gabriel, reaching out to fuss with the hem. Beelzebub slaps his hands away. “I like it like thizz.”

“All right, all right.” He smiles and sits back. “You look good.”

“Damn zztraight I do,” mutters Beelzebub. They grab a plate of food and a glass of wine and sit on the couch. They still feel strangely bare, without the red sash of their office and the ancient medal at their throat, but the loss of those things doesn’t _hurt_ the way the loss of their wings does. And probably always will. 

They blink quickly and shove in a huge bite of curry.

“It is a bit spicy—” warns Aziraphale.

“I know,” says Beelzebub with their mouth full. They swallow, then toss back most of the wine.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Usually we sip—”

I. KNOW. Their eyes flash red. Crowley retreats into his chair.

“_I_ will try sipping,” Gabriel announces, reaching for the last glass of wine.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Erm, Lord Beelzebub, could you please keep your flies to your own food?”

Beelzebub looks up. Barely half a dozen flies are sharing the principality’s plate, but somehow that’s enough to put him in a strop. They sigh and summon the insects back. It’s annoying to micromanage their flies, but they suppose they owe Aziraphale something for providing the food. It is _delicious_. And the wine’s not bad either.

“So,” says Crowley. “When do we get to find out what happened to you?”

“Don’t you already know?” Beelzebub speaks through another mouthful. “You zzaid Dagon called.”

“She wasn’t exactly a fount of information. She just said you were on Earth, badly injured, and could I go look for you.”

“That’zz it?” Beelzebub wouldn’t have expected their second-in-command to spill every messy detail, but she wasn’t usually so taciturn.

“She sounded busy. The video kept cutting out, and Hastur was yelling in the background. I imagine there’s a bit of a power vacuum in Hell right now.”

“You might say they’re _duking_ it out down there,” Aziraphale says, with a pleased little wiggle. Gabriel guffaws. Angels and their terrible senses of humor.

Beelzebub just ignores them, but Crowley turns abruptly, unexpectedly livid. He points at Gabriel. “_You_. Do not get to laugh at his jokes. _You tried to kill him_.”

“Hey!” Beelzebub snaps back. “Gabriel can laugh at whatever dumb jokezz he wantzz to.”

Hell has hosted lethal fights over less than this, but before the two demons can get into it, their respective angels are patting their arms and murmuring in their ears. Then Gabriel sets down his wine glass and sits up very straight.

“Principality Aziraphale,” he says solemnly. “I apologize.”

Crowley sneers. “Oh how _nice_, next you’ll be saying it was all a mistake—”

Aziraphale quiets the demon with a glance. “I accept your apology, Archangel Gabriel.”

“The _fuck_?” say both Crowley and Beelzebub.

“But I don’t forgive you,” he adds serenely.

Gabriel opens his mouth, and closes it. He drums his fingers on his knees. Then he picks up his glass again. “I think,” he says, “I might need more wine.”

Aziraphale tops him off, leans back and crosses his legs. “Now, if you are quite ready, I should like to know _what the devil happened to you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: in this chapter I need you four to have a significant conversation  
Crowley: okay but I need wine  
Aziraphale: I need food  
Beelzebub: I need clothes  
Gabriel: did you say wine?  
me: FINE I’ll make it two chapters
> 
> So yeah this keeps getting longer, but I hope it's as much fun to read as it is to write! Thanks so much for every single comment & kudos, they put Gabriel-size grins on my face.


	5. Never Deep in Anything but Wine

Gabriel can count on the fingers of one hand all the drinks he’s ever had.

One: hot cocoa in Aziraphale’s bookshop, when he visited for advice after his first fight with Beelzebub.

Two: coffee in LA’s absurdly hip and expensive Grand Central Market, where Beelzebub demanded he take them after they made up.

Three: a matcha and asparagus protein drink that an earnest salesperson was offering to every jogger in St. James’ Park. When he mentioned it to Beelzebub, they smugly informed him that the salesperson was one of theirs, peddling infernal concoctions to an unsuspecting public. He still isn’t sure if they made up that claim on the spot, but since they both thoroughly enjoyed the angry sex that came afterward, he supposes it’s a moot point.

Four: coffee with Beelzebub in Grand Central Market again.

Five: a glass of white wine at a cottage in the South Downs. He thinks of it as one glass, although he couldn’t say how many times it’s been refilled. The alcohol has loosened his limbs so he’s taking up most of the couch, arms across the back and knees fallen apart. Beelzebub has been shifting around him, curling into his side, sitting in his lap, perching on the back of the couch, all the while devouring curries and chutneys with as much enthusiasm as Aziraphale.

Now Beelzebub’s legs are hooked over one arm of the couch, their head on Gabriel’s thigh as they lick gulab jamun syrup off their fingers. It’s _very_ distracting, and Gabriel has just enough presence of mind to look away before his body manifests a physical reaction.

Across the room, Crowley has slithered from his chair to the floor. He leans against Aziraphale’s legs while the angel strokes his coppery hair. Gabriel watches them and wonders, as he often has before, how Aziraphale got so comfortable here on earth. He doesn’t seem to miss Heaven in the slightest. It’s as if he doesn’t even think of Heaven as _home_ any more.

Gabriel’s throat feels suddenly tight, and he’s glad when Crowley interrupts his thoughts.

“Don’t envy you, running foul of Old Scratch,” the demon is musing. “I still have nightmares about the bloody airfield. How’s he looking these days?”

Gabriel waits for Beelzebub to answer, but they just tip more wine into their mouth without acknowledging the question. So he says, “Like you’d expect. Big and red. Lots of horns.”

“_How fitting that Lord Auberon is horn’d_,” murmurs Aziraphale, with a meaningful look toward Beelzebub. Crowley turns his face into the angel’s knee and coughs, or maybe laughs.

“Well, he’s got one less horn now.” Gabriel is well practiced in ignoring references he doesn’t get. “I blasted it off. D’you think it’ll grow back, Beelz?”

“Dunno.” They stare at their glass. “I’m zzure hizz legzz will heal eventually. I hope he thinkzz about me every time they hurt.”

Gabriel drops one hand to cup their cheek, touching his thumb to the corner of their lips. He’s lost so, so much today. Or yesterday. Whenever it was. But he could have lost even more. “I hope he never thinks about you again,” he says quietly.

Beelzebub meets his eyes and gives a small nod. “Yezz, I zzuppoze that would be bezzt.”

Gabriel’s fingers trail down to their neck, where the gold and purple marks of his lips and teeth peek through the mesh of their overshirt. It feels like an age of the world has gone by since he sat on a foggy beach with Beelzebub in his arms, so absorbed in the sweet-salt of their skin that he never stopped to think who else might have a claim to their affections.

“Beelzebub,” he asks, because apparently he’s drunk enough to do this, “did you ever love him?”

Whatever Gabriel expected, it wasn’t for Beelzebub to laugh so hard they roll off the couch. “Are you kidding? I loved him more than I loved Her.” They climb unsteadily to their feet. “Why do you think I fought? Why do you think I _fell_?”

“All _right_,” snaps Gabriel, but Beelzebub ignores the warning. They spread their hands, and the room grows unnaturally dark. Gabriel narrows his eyes. Are they _trying_ to piss him off?

Well, probably.

I’M THE ORIGINAL ZZATANIST. Flames spring from Beelzebub’s palms, shaping sigils of death and damnation as their voice shakes the air. I WORZHIPPED HIM. AND I MADE ZZURE ALL THE OTHER DEMONZZ DID TOO.

Oh, Gabriel is going to _fuck them up_ for this.

“That’s quite enough of that.” Aziraphale’s voice sounds surprisingly sharp for such a soft angel. Warm light pushes back the darkness, even as Gabriel lunges forward to grab Beelzebub’s wrists. He twists, and the flames disappear.

“Little beast,” he growls.

“You azzked.” Almost a pout.

“I wanted an answer, not a performance.” Gabriel yanks them closer, knowing how their skin must burn under his fingers. Beelzebub shivers and licks their lips. They both know the next step in this dance.

“Get a room!” yells Crowley, pouring wine so carelessly that only a miracle keeps it off the floor.

“Later,” says Gabriel softly, his eyes locked on Beelzebub’s as he releases their wrists. They smirk and slide back onto the couch, draping their legs across his lap.

“So, what happened?” Aziraphale inquires.

Beelzebub squints at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” He sips his wine. “You’re not a devil-worshipper now.”

“Oh.” They shrug with one shoulder. “Thouzzandzz of yearzz in Hell happened. My idolatry rotted away to indifferenze. Even zzexz brought no pleazzure, so we didn’t bother until buzzinezz called for it.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows furrow. “Business?”

The first to figure it out is Crowley. His jaw works silently for a few seconds, then he asks with an attempt at nonchalance, “That business, I suppose it was about sixty-three years ago? Ended with handing a basket to our old friend Hastur?”

This time Beelzebub shrugs with both shoulders, a gesture that isn’t usually considered affirmative, but in this case they all know it is. Three immortal entities stare at the Lord of the Flies, gobsmacked.

Gabriel thinks back to that day on the airfield when the world was supposed to end, and he remembers feeling charmed by Beelzebub’s unexpected smile as they asked the boy, _Don’t you want to rule the world?_ He swallows. “You were the Antichrist’s _mother_?”

Beelzebub gives a sneer that would wilt every flower in a ten-mile radius, if the surrounding plants hadn’t already built up an immunity to demonic sneers. “Nanny Aszhtoreth over there izz more of a mother than I ever wazz or wiszh to be.”

Crowley preens. Aziraphale, delicate but persistent, pursues the question. “But you, er, gave birth to Adam? In a biological sense?”

“Who elzze did you think would do it?”

Gabriel has to admit that in all the excitement over the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness, this particular question had been entirely glossed over. “So you have—I mean, you can get pregnant?”

“Only if I deczide to, dumbazz! And truzzt me, onzze was enough.” Beelzebub gives Gabriel an appraising look. “You szhould’ve done that annuzziation. ‘Fear much, Beelzebub, for thou hazzt found dizzfavor with Zzatan. And behold, thou szhalt conzzeive in thy womb—’ ”

Gabriel smacks their thigh. “Blasphemous demon!” But Crowley and Aziraphale are giggling, and the archangel has to admit that Beelzebub’s mockery is, maybe, just a tiny bit, funny.

“Michael could’ve done that one,” he suggests, thinking of her pragmatic establishment of backchannels.

Beelzebub scoffs. “Not that uzzelezz bitch.”

Gabriel frowns. He and Michael have had each other’s backs since before the dawn of time. He won’t let anyone, even Beelzebub, talk about her like that. “Hey now, Beelz, Michael helped us out, remember? I’m not sure we could have won that fight without her.”

“And you wouldn’t have lozzt your wingzz, either. What a zzweetheart.”

“I don’t believe she was part of that,” says Gabriel positively. “It must’ve been Sandalphon and Uriel taking their own initiative.” He still doesn’t understand it, not at all, perhaps because he hasn’t allowed himself to think about it—not at all.

“How heavenly,” says Crowley, voice soaked in sarcasm. “You must be so proud of them.”

“Zhut up, zznake.” Beelzebub glowers at him and grabs a bottle from the table to fill up their glass and Gabriel’s.

The archangel watches them pour, letting his thoughts spool out from the memory. His own angels cut off his wings with barely an explanation, as if his crime was too obvious—or too odious—for words. “You know why we have to do this,” Uriel said, almost sadly, and Sandalphon added, “A rogue archangel is too great a risk.” But Gabriel has only ever served Heaven’s highest interest. What made them recast him as _rogue_? Was it consorting with Beelzebub? He could have defended that. Was it engaging the Adversary without prior approval or paperwork? He could have defended that too. But they gave him no chance.

Bitterly he lifts his glass, only to notice a drowned fly in the wine.

He starts crying.

“What the Hell’zz wrong with you?” says Beelzebub, sounding genuinely alarmed.

“The poor little th-thing,” Gabriel hiccups, tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin as he gazes at the tiny floating body. “It was buzzing along, happy and content, and now it’ll never f-fly again. Never go home. Never buzz around happily with all its fr-friends.”

“Oh for the love of . . .” Beelzebub sticks their finger into his wine and pulls out the dead fly. “Thizz? Izz thizz what you’re crying about?”

He nods, wiping his eyes.

“Look.” They breathe on it. The fly flexes its wings, then zips off to join its fellows around Beelzebub’s hair. “It’zz fine.”

“But it still can’t go home.” Gabriel knows this is ridiculous, knows that he's only pretending to talk about the fly, but thank God, Beelzebub appears willing to humor him.

“It doezzn’t want to go back to Hell,” they answer. “It'zz glad to be out.”

Actually, forget the fly. “But, Beelz, that’s your _home_.”

“Nah. Juzzt a szhitty place to wazte the millenia.”

This is startling, to say the least. Gabriel had always assumed they felt about Hell the same way he feels about Heaven. He buries his hands in his hair, too drunk and agitated to care about messing it up. “You should have told me you were unhappy!”

“It’zz fucking Hell, Gabriel! Nobody’zz happy there.”

“Is that why you wanted me to mark you? Were you trying to get kicked out?” Gabriel’s mind is spinning, reassessing all the events of the last . . . day. Night. Age of the world.

“Oh, like it wazz zzo hard for you to do it.” Beelzebub crowds up close to him, placing their hands on his shoulders. “Aren’t you glad to have me all to yourzzelf now?”

He pushes them off and stands, a bit too quickly. The floor tries to slide away from his feet, but he manages to keep them planted. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not really a plan—”

“_How long?_”

Beelzebub sighs, their gaze skittering around the room to land on Crowley. “Since the Zzerpent of Eden took a bath in holy water.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “I wouldn’t try—”

Beelzebub shuts him up with a wave. “I don’t care about holy bathzz, idiot. The point izz, you got out. Even _he_ never came after you. That wazz the firzzt time I thought about it. But lizzten, Gabriel—”

“God, I should have seen it before,” says Gabriel. He’s putting together a puzzle and the picture is sickening, but he can’t stop slotting in pieces. “You’ve always been using me, haven’t you? You piss me off whenever you want a hit of divine wrath. You sold me on your New Plan so you could use my army against Earth.”

He hears a surprised exclamation from across the room, but he’s too worked up to pay attention. “And when you got tired of Hell, you used me to get yourself exiled. That’s some fucked up shit, Beelz.”

“I’m a demon,” snarls Beelzebub. “What do you _exzpect_.”

Gabriel thinks he might cry again, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters. He’s lost Heaven and he’s lost his wings and now he’s losing the only reason he had to suffer those losses. “I should have seen it,” he repeats. “You’ve never said you love me. Not once.”

He'd always thought he heard it, behind the cadence of _I hate you_ and _don’t zztop_ and best of all in the gasping cry of his name, and he’d been satisfied. What a colossal mistake. “How could I have been so _stupid_?”

“I don’t know!” Beelzebub looks as angry as Gabriel now. He doesn’t understand why. They should be pleased with themselves, but they’re buzzing with rage. “You’re zzuch a fucking idiot!”

“At least we’re in agreement,” he says shakily, stumbling past the coffee table and reaching for the front door. “Please excuse me, I’m going to make a call.”

* * *

“If the Archangel Gabriel takes a piss in my garden, ‘m not gonna be happy. Doesn’t he know about toilets?” Crowley eyes Beelzebub, who’s been standing motionless and staring at the door. “Do _you_ know about toilets? ‘s funny, I can’t remember if there’s toilets in Hell . . .”

Aziraphale tugs on the demon’s hair. “Do try to behave, my dear.”

“Am behaving,” insists Crowley. “F’r example. Didn’t ask Gabriel how it feels to get Satan’s ssloppy ssseconds.”

Aziraphale gives him a disapproving look and twists his fingers in the red curls. “My _dear_. Lord Beelzebub is still here.”

Crowley rubs his cheek against Aziraphale’s knee, looking up into his eyes. “Angel, you know this—” he pulls against Aziraphale’s grip— “is not going to discourage me from _anything_.”

Beelzebub is seething, furious that these two have the audacity to flirt in their own home when Gabriel just walked out on them. _Gabriel_. Walked out on _them._ That was never supposed to happen. “Where the fuck izz he going?”

Aziraphale points at the ceiling, looking almost apologetic. “I think he may be, ah, trying to reach the Almighty.”

“Right.” Beelzebub marches to a window, flings it open, and sticks their head out. “Oi! Gabriel! Tell Her I zzaid to fuck right off!”

“Lord Beelzebub, please,” says Aziraphale. “We do have neighbors, and it’s very late.”

“Think at this point it’s early,” observes Crowley, getting to his feet.

Beelzebub keeps yelling. “_Your exz is juzzt as toxzic azz mine!_”

Crowley edges around them and manages to shut the window. Beelzebub glares at him, thinking that they could throw him out of the way and shout some more, but it wouldn’t make them any less miserable. “Szhould I go after him?”

Crowley, clearly unprepared to dispense relationship advice, shoots a desperate look at Aziraphale. The angel purses his lips, considering. “Gabriel may want some space,” he tells Beelzebub at last. “You were rather a bitch.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley looks both horrified and delighted. “That’s not a nice word.”

“All the other words I have for them are worse,” replies Aziraphale promptly.

Crowley blinks, then laughs so hard he has to lean against a chair. Beelzebub frowns at him, more puzzled than offended, and finally comes up with the reference. “Yezz. Very clever.” They sink back down on the couch, head in their hands.

“Have some more wine,” says Crowley, helpfully refilling their glass. He exchanges a look with Aziraphale. “And tell us about this New Plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like everyone else, I’m a sucker for Crowley’s hair and for Aziraphale pulling it.
> 
> Aziraphale’s dig about horns is a quote from Sandman.
> 
> I’m trying to keep the tags updated, but please let me know if I miss something--or if you spot any mistakes/typos/inconsistencies in the text.
> 
> And I love love love comments, always!


	6. Her Little Children Stumbling in the Dark

By the mid-21st century, storm surges driven by sea level rise had sunk half of Eastbourne and most of Brighton. The streets of Seaford, however, remained miraculously dry.

Gabriel is wandering those streets now, heedless of the unapproved angelic interference that’s been protecting them from coastal floods. It’s fog o’clock in the morning, and the town is quiet and dark.

Upon closer inspection, Gabriel might be stumbling along a ditch rather than a road, but it hardly matters. He’s not trying to get anywhere. He’s just praying.

It’s been a long time since the archangel prayed like this. Actually, he’s never prayed like _this_. “Fuck fuck fuck _shit_. I was Your champion! I faced the Enemy and I won! And in return I get my _wings_ cut off? What the fucking Hell?”

Gabriel hears music in the distance, something rhythmic with bells and reeds and strings. But he doesn’t hear an answer.

She used to talk to him, he remembers that. A very long time ago. Nothing in particular happened to shut down their communication—it’s not like he gave away a flaming sword—but humans multiplied, and the Divine Plan rolled along, and Gabriel just got so busy. The Almighty wasn’t much help with his ever-growing to-do list. When he ran across matters that required a higher authority, it was more practical to go directly to the Metatron. Gabriel figured She didn’t want to be bothered with details; it was commendable of him to manage Heaven without troubling Her.

He still prayed, as a matter of routine. He opened all Heaven’s meetings with a prayer well into the seventeenth century, until Michael pointed out it was a bit silly. After all, they were _angels_. Gabriel quickly agreed. Omitting the prayer shortened the meetings, so he could fit more of them in.

After the Antichrist kid vetoed Armageddon, Gabriel intended to sit down and have a serious conversation with God. He really did. But it took an absurd amount of work to decommission the celestial army, plus he had to deal with the renegade angel whose odd antics had abruptly escalated to full-blown treason, and when _that_ didn’t go according to plan, he found all sorts of reasons to put off contacting the Almighty.

Then there’d been Beelzebub.

“I hope You’re laughing!” he yells into the fog. “The Archangel Gabriel falling in love with the Lord of the Flies, that’s one Hell of a joke. Ow! Why’d You put a fucking thornbush there?”

The musicians, wherever they are, start their next song with a chime that rings through the night air—as sharp and clear as Gabriel’s memory of discovering that he loved Beelzebub.

It was on their second—well, it would be charitable to call it a _date_, and if Gabriel were a Virtue, he wouldn’t be Charity. Their second business meeting, then, that happened to cover more than the official business of Heaven and Hell.

_Beelzebub was straddling Gabriel’s thighs and they were both still dressed, technically, but their clothes were a disaster. The prince’s forehead rested on his shoulder, which was wet with their tears and saliva, and they took slow, shaky breaths. Their hands were wound up in Gabriel’s scarf, clenched and trembling. _

_He paused. “Is it too much?”_

_“Don’t ever azzk me that,” Beelzebub muttered. “If I’m done, I’ll leave.”_

_Gabriel tilted up their chin with his free hand, gazing into blue-hot eyes. “I don’t want you to go.”_

_“Then don’t zztop, zztupid.”_

_So he took their mouth in a rough kiss and twisted his fingers in the heat of their body. They melted against him, moaning so low he felt it in his bones. It was filthier than Sodom and sweeter than Eden, and he knew then without a doubt that he loved Beelzebub. As quickly as he knew it, he packed the knowledge away. A demon would never want that. Would never return it._

Several years later, Gabriel came around to the idea that demons, at least some of them, might have feelings after all. When he told Beelzebub for the first time that he loved them, it was partly for the pleasure of watching them squirm, but it was also because he wanted them to know. They answered, “I hate you.” And they didn’t leave. 

For decades, that was all the reciprocation Gabriel received, and it was all he wanted. Until tonight, when everything he thought he knew was turned on its head. “I wish You’d just talk to me,” he whines at the sky. “What am I supposed to _do_?”

The music sounds quite close now, and for lack of any other answer, Gabriel veers toward it. He makes his way off the street and down a tree-lined walkway into a courtyard full of light and song. Electric lanterns hang in the air, while flames gutter in clay lamps on the flagstones. A dozen people sit cross-legged on cushions, chanting, clapping, and playing instruments Gabriel can’t name. Their words are a mix of English and Hindi, a few simple phrases repeated over and over, but there’s nothing monotonous about it. An almost urgent joy permeates their voices.

“There you are! Come, come!” calls a man chiming bells. He waves to Gabriel with such familiarity that the archangel supposes they must have met before.

“This is the one we’ve been waiting for,” the bell man tells the woman drumming next to him, and they both laugh in delight. The music rises and swells, carrying Gabriel across the courtyard.

“Come, come,” the drummer echoes, patting an empty cushion beside her. “What do you play?”

Gabriel collapses ungracefully on the seat. What does he play? Oh, right. “Trumpet.”

She laughs again and calls, “A flute! A flute for our friend!”

Gabriel feels the slender instrument pressed into his hands. Even hammered halfway to oblivion, the archangel has perfect pitch and a gift for harmony. He listens for a few seconds to the song in the air, a faint crease of concentration between his eyebrows, then he brings the flute to his lips and joins in.

“Hare Krishna, Hare Ram, Ram, Ram, Hare Krishna,” the voices chant all around him, and Gabriel hears it as the Name in all names, the Song in all songs. It is glorious, it is jubilant, it is a spiritual celebration such as he hasn’t seen or felt for more than two thousand years. He wonders how often this happens on Earth, and whether it happens in many places, or just in Seaborn?

The music is too beautiful for him to keep his thoughts apart from it for long. He drinks in the humans’ devotion and pours out blessings through the notes of his flute. If the courtyard is brighter now, much brighter, well, that can be chalked up to the coming dawn.

As the fog recedes and the day’s first sunlight touches the rooftops, the chanting finally slows, then fades away. The musicians begin to pack up their instruments and lamps, sharing many smiles but few words. 

“It’s over already?” Gabriel asks the drummer, trying to hand her the flute.

She pushes it back to him. “That is yours, I was told.” Her eyes dance with merriment. “We have been playing bhajans all night, my friend. We have fed our souls, now we must feed our bodies—and our families too. It is time to go home.”

“Oh, of course.” Gabriel runs his finger along the smooth bamboo, thinking, _I wish I could go home._

He must be thinking it very loudly, because the woman gives him a sympathetic look, and the man with the bells leans over and says, “The Son of Man hath not where to lay his head, eh?” He grins and adds, “There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be. It’s easy. All you need is love!”

“Mahesh,” scolds the drummer. “You can’t quote the Bible and the Beatles in the same breath.”

“Why, is it disrespectful?”

“No, just confusing. Look at the poor fellow.” She pats Gabriel’s arm. “But Mahesh is right, you know. Meera said it too. _The only indispensable is love._”

Gabriel intends to humor them with a smile and then walk away, because it’s impossible that humans, even these humans with their transcendent music, can offer any true insight to an archangel. But even as the patronizing smile appears on his face, the humans’ words vibrate in his ears, resonating with something deep in Gabriel’s essense. _Love, love, love._

He closes his eyes for a moment, and everything spins into focus.

Before he said them to Beelzebub, Gabriel had not uttered the words “I love you” for an eon or more. He’d thought that love was a given, that it should go without saying—and without saying, it did indeed go. He nearly forgot what it felt like, until the terrifyingly adorable Prince of Hell crashed into his life. Whether they know it or not, Beelzebub has given him something tremendous: the awakening of his love, his own personal, fierce, messy and wonderful love.

Another age might have passed while Gabriel’s eyes were closed, but when he opens them it’s still early morning and the drummer and the bell man are still smiling at him. He smiles back and they squint a little, so he tries to tone it down and think of words to express his gratitude.

Before he can say anything, the woman points with her chin over Gabriel’s shoulder. “I think someone is looking for you.”

He feels a great surge of happiness, but when he turns around, it’s not Beelzebub standing there.

It’s Sandalphon.

“Good morning, everyone!” says the other angel with fake cheer. He points at Gabriel. “I have come to see this person about some business.”

Gabriel recovers himself and nods in agreement. “Yes, this person is my brother and we have family business to discuss. Let us go somewhere to discuss it, brother.”

The two musicians exchange an amused look. “Have a nice time, then,” says the bell-player, while the drummer folds her hands and bows her head. “Namaste.”

Gabriel, enchanted, does it back to her. She gives him an indulgent smile, as she might to a child, and waves him off before he or Sandalphon can explain themselves anymore.

When they leave the courtyard, Gabriel heads south and west, toward the beach. Seaford is waking up, the streets crowding with morning traffic. It’s lovely. He imagines the musicians returning to their homes, cooking breakfast, going to work, all the while their hearts still singing. After thousands of years, Gabriel is just starting to think these humans might have more to offer than excellent tailoring.

Sandalphon clears his throat, and Gabriel glances at him. “What is it?”

He looks at the flute in the archangel’s hand. “Rather a step down for you, isn’t it?”

Gabriel chooses to ignore the gloat in his tone. “I like it. I suppose my horn’s still in storage?”

“Oh no, Michael has it on her desk now. Prominently displayed.”

Gabriel sighs. Epiphany notwithstanding, he still aches for what he’s lost. “I miss her too.”

“She didn’t put your horn on her desk because she _misses_ you.” Sandalphon sounds offended. The sun glints off his teeth. “It’s a reminder that virtue must be ever vigilant. That even the highest can be brought low.”

“So all Heaven knows what you did to me.” Gabriel listens for the sound of crashing waves and turns toward it, taking them down a smaller street.

“Of course,” says Sandalphon. “We talked it over years ago. Michael was worried that your base dealings with—with someone _Below_—might taint the wisdom of your decisions, might even put us all in danger. We decided on a contingency plan, and agreed to move swiftly at the first sign of any lapse of judgment.”

“And _smiting Satan_ was a _lapse of judgment_?” Gabriel can’t hold back his incredulity.

“It’s all about context. Intentions. Haven’t you heard what humans say about the road to Hell?”

Gabriel frowns, wondering if he hasn’t gotten that one a bit mixed up, but then again, neither angel is an expert on human aphorisms.

Sandalphon wags a pompous finger. “You met the Adversary in a feud born of lust and covetousness. You acted out of anger and jealousy.”

“I acted out of love,” retorts Gabriel. “I fought to protect Beelzebub, to preserve us both from—”

“You’ve gotten so clever at excuses,” sniffs Sandalphon. “Just like a human. There’s no place for that in Heaven.”

Gabriel wants to ask, _And who are you to decide for all of Heaven?_ But he also knows that it doesn’t matter. It won't change anything.

They’ve reached the end of the street and he can see the breakers now, sea foam shining in the morning sun. “What do you want, Sandalphon?”

The other angel doesn’t answer right away, just stands there as Gabriel balances perfectly on one foot, then the other, to remove his shoes and socks. “Information,” he says at last.

“Oh?” Gabriel steps onto the beach, swinging his shoes from one hand. The sand is still dawn-cold. He digs his toes in, savoring how each grain rubs against his skin.

Sandalphon screws up his face in disgust, but joins him on the beach. “In reviewing all your notes on the New Plan, Michael can’t find a timeline. We need one. And a few other details. So I’ll take you back to Heaven to answer our questions, then—”

“Fuck off,” says Gabriel, cold but calm. “You excised me like a boil and now you want me to help you figure shit out? Maybe you should have put something about this in your _contingency plan_.”

“This isn’t an invitation—”

“Michael should have come herself, instead of sending a thug. You disgust me, Sandalphon.”

Sandalphon draws himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “I see we didn’t act a moment too soon. Gabriel, you are _lost_. Now that you’ve sullied yourself with that Fallen filth, you’d rather roll around in the mud here on Earth than help Heaven with our good work, even when I reach out the hand of mercy.”

“Shut up.”

“Where is your pet fly, anyway?” Sandalphon looks around mockingly. “Did they tire of you already? Did they _replazzzze_ you with a rotting—”

_THUD._

Sandalphon’s head snaps forward. His face goes slack and he drops to the sand, and there is Beelzebub, eyes alight with Hellfire, flexing the fingers of their right hand. “What a thick zzkull,” they say, and spit on the crumpled body. It sizzles.

Their eyes meet Gabriel’s. The red glow fades. “Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took a while to write, and went in its own direction?? I'd love to know what you think. (And not to worry, we'll get the four ineffable idiots back together before the end.)
> 
> Meera, aka Mirabai, is one of my favorite religious figures of all time: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meera


	7. Remould it Nearer to the Heart’s Desire

“Beelzebub!” Gabriel’s exuberant embrace lifts the demon several inches off the ground. Their arms are pinned at their sides, their face mashed against his chest. They take a moment to relish the angel’s familiar scent of Italian wool and ozone before squirming free to eye him suspiciously.

“After everything you zzaid, I thought I’d have to grovel at leazzt a little.”

He appears to consider this. “I could make you crawl, I suppose. You do look good on your hands and knees.”

“Ah, there’zz the azzhole angel I fell in love with.”

Silence for the span of a breaking wave, while Beelzebub curses themselves to the bottom of the Pit and back for letting it slip so carelessly. They’d meant to tell him at some point, just not like that.

Quietly, Gabriel says, “Did you, now.”

“No, I did fifty bloody yearzz ago.” Beelzebub kicks sand onto Sandalphon’s motionless form. “I thought you knew.”

Violet eyes fix on their face as though inclined to pierce right through it. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

They glare back at him. “Zzame reazzon you never _zztop_ telling me.”

Gabriel must know that his declarations of love are like fingernails on a chalkboard to Beelzebub’s demonic nature, and he keeps spitting them out anyway. The best revenge they could devise was refusing to confess their own feelings.

“I did know, or I thought I knew,” admits Gabriel. “It was just—last night, I got overwhelmed.”

“And utterly pizz-drunk.”

“Yeah, that too.” And yet he doesn’t look much worse for wear. Beelzebub wonders if he cured his hangover with a miracle, or if he’s one of those lucky bastards who don’t get them in the first place.

“Anyway, I’m sorry,” Gabriel continues. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Beelzebub’s mouth falls open in astonishment. By the time they’d left the cottage to look for Gabriel, they’d come to terms with the possibility of having to _explain themselves_ and _make amends_. But now _he’s_ the one apologizing? 

It’s delicious. It’s bizarre. They can’t help giggling.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re zzorry. For doubting. A demon.” They suck in a deep breath, trying to regain some composure. “You were abzzolutely right, this izz zzome fucked-up szhit we’ve got going on here.”

They’re interrupted by a brown-and-white spaniel that trots up to sniff Sandalphon. “Excuse me,” says the woman on the end of the dog’s lead. “Is your friend all right? I’m trained as a first responder—”

“He’zz fine,” says Beelzebub, surreptitiously encouraging the dog to relieve himself.

Gabriel waves his hand, and the other angel disappears. The dog’s stream of urine lands on suddenly empty sand. Both dog and woman let out surprised yelps.

“Honezztly,” mutters Beelzebub. They step forward and snap their fingers in the woman’s face.

She blinks several times, then smiles brightly. “Lovely morning!” she chirps, before letting the spaniel drag her off down the beach. The poor thing can’t get away fast enough.

“Where did you zzend him?” asks Beelzebub.

“I’m not entirely sure,” says Gabriel. “I meant to send him back to Heaven, but . . . I don’t know if I have access anymore.”

Beelzebub scowls, hating how the hurt in his voice gets under their skin. _That’s what this love shit does to you_, they snipe at themselves. _Guess you’ll have to deliver that apology after all. Sucker._ “I never meant for you to get kicked out of Heaven, Gabriel. I know it meanzz zzomething to you.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “But I still think you should have talked to me, Beelz. Told me what you had in mind.”

“Like I zzaid, I really didn’t have a plan.” Beelzebub folds their arms. “I juzzt wanted you to mark me becauzze it felt good.”

Gabriel stands there listening patiently, as though he knows they have more to say. This is agonizing, a kind of torment Hell knows nothing about. They sigh. “Szure, maybe a part of me wanted to szhow all of Hell, to zzee what would happen, but if I’d let myzzelf think that far ahead I’d have been too zzcared to azzk for it. I didn’t tell you, becauzze I didn’t even tell myzzelf.” The words stick horribly in their throat, but they force them out. “It wazz a mizztake, and it hurt you, and I’m zzorry.”

“Oh, Beelzebub.” His tone is loving, almost reverent. “I wouldn’t have chosen for it to happen this way, but you were right about one thing.”

“What’zz that?”

He reaches out to unfold their arms, sliding his hands around their waist. His smile is beatific, though not entirely _good_. “I am glad to have you all to myself now.”

Beelzebub rises up on their toes to meet his kiss. Gabriel’s mouth tastes like salt air and the lingering dryness of last night’s wine, overlaid with a hint of—“Is that bamboo?”

Gabriel laughs at their confusion, holding them with one arm as he shows them a slender instrument.

“What’zz that?”

“A flute.” He blows a few notes, so pure and ethereal Beelzebub shivers. “Some humans gave it to me.”

“I hope you’re not going to announzze a new Judgement Day.”

“Of course not.” He drops the flute in a pocket and pulls Beelzebub closer. “Do you know, I think I’m starting to like Earth?”

“Well that’zz good, ‘cauzze we’re zztuck here.” They untuck his shirt from his slacks so they can slide their hands up his back, nails dancing along his spine.

He takes a quick breath. “Sandalphon wanted to bring me back to Heaven. To answer questions, he said.”

Beelzebub stills the movement of their hands, surprised. “And you zzaid no?”

“I said no. Higher,” he instructs, so their fingers climb to find the twin scars of Gabriel’s lost wings. The skin feels slightly raised and smooth as ice. Instinctively Beelzebub digs in with their fingertips, and Gabriel lets out a deep sigh. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? They aren’t going to leave us alone. Sandalphon knows how to hold a grudge, and your old boss—”

“Yezz,” agrees Beelzebub. As they massage Gabriel’s scars, his hands slip under their shirt to return the favor. Their eyes fall shut. “Crowley and hizz angel have an idea about that.”

* * *

“You missed breakfast,” says Crowley as Beelzebub and Gabriel walk into the garden. He’s trimming roses while Aziraphale sits at a delicate wrought-iron table with a book and a cup of tea. Beelzebub notes the pastry crumbs on two empty plates, the plundered jar of clotted cream and jam dish.

“That’zz what you think,” they retort, pouring the remaining cream directly into their mouth as their flies descend on the jam.

Aziraphale looks up from his book with a frown, but then his eyes fall on the freshly-cut rose beside his teacup. It’s a variegated red and white bloom, still wet with dew. The angel’s face softens as he picks it up and breathes its fragrance. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Oh, Crowley,” mocks Beelzebub. “Zzentimental zzlop.” They offer Gabriel the last drops of cream. “Want zzome?”

He smiles and shakes his head, intoning, “I have fed my soul already.”

“Is that so?” asks Aziraphale politely.

“Oh, yes! I ran across a group of musicians playing—what did she call it? Ball johns? It was practically divine, Aziraphale. If they ever do it again, you have to—”

“They do it several times a year,” he answers mildly. “The chants are called bhajans, and yes, I’ve joined them on occasion. I do hope you were kind to them.”

“I was angelic,” says Gabriel, as if he hasn’t had abundant evidence of just how unkind that can be. “I spoke mostly with the woman playing drums. She was very friendly.”

“Oh, that’ll be Radha, on the tablas. She’s a dear.” Aziraphale smiles.

“She gave me a flute,” says Gabriel, pulling it proudly from his pocket.

“Smart lady, suiting the instrument to the blowhard,” says Crowley under his breath.

Beelzebub glares at him. “I’ll zzet your rozzez on fire.”

“Why don’t you play something?” suggests Aziraphale quickly.

After a moment’s thought, Gabriel puts the instrument to his lips and begins a tune. It takes just a few notes for the rest of them to recognize “Edelweiss” from _The Sound of Music_.

Crowley leans over Aziraphale. “You had to ask.” 

Aziraphale pats his hand. “It’s the least annoying song from the whole soundtrack, my dear.”

Beelzebub, who knows the musical only through Gabriel and finds his enthusiasm for it doltishly adorable, surprises themselves by enjoying the melody that floats through the garden. Without the distraction of words, it’s strangely affecting, almost haunting. When Gabriel reaches the end and lowers the flute, they look at him with reluctant appreciation. “Not bad for your firzzt day with it.”

Gabriel grins. “Well, it isn't my first time with an instrument that makes beautiful sounds when I finger the holes correctly.”

Crowley drops his gardening shears. Aziraphale’s eyebrows arch to the sky, but he seems less surprised by Gabriel’s comment than by the reaction it elicited. “Lord Beelzebub, are you blushing?”

“_No_,” they snarl.

“But your face is quite red.”

“I’m about to combuzzt. With _rage_.”

Gabriel pockets the flute. “Because I made a sexual innuendo? I thought it was pretty clever.”

“I cannot exzprezz my hatred for you in wordzz right now,” Beelzebub informs him.

“So try something else,” he drawls.

They throw a fist at his shit-eating grin but he catches their wrist before it can land. They drive a knee toward his groin—they’ve never hesitated to fight dirty—and Gabriel grabs that too. So they hook their other foot around his ankle and shove at his shoulder with their free hand, and the archangel topples to the ground, dragging Beelzebub with him. They’re only on top for a moment before he rolls them over in the wet grass, pinning them with a broad hand on their chest even as they drag his head down by the hair so they can bite his lips.

This. This is everything Beelzebub never knew they wanted, all those interminable centuries in Hell—the fresh scent of dirt and crushed grass, the solid heat of Gabriel’s body, the desire that simmers beneath their fury, and even further beneath that, the laughter that threatens to break through.

Aziraphale clears his throat. Beelzebub and Gabriel don’t stop kissing, so he raises his voice. “You are welcome to take this elsewhere, but I assume that you came back to the cottage in order to pursue the course of action we discussed. Yes? Shall we get on with it?”

“So you can get the Hell out of our hair,” Crowley adds.

“Yezz, all right,” says Beelzebub, shoving at Gabriel until he gets up and offers them a hand. They brush grass stains from each other’s clothes, drying the fabric with a thought. Crowley, with a last admonishing look at his roses, leads the way inside.

“Call Adam Young,” he instructs the air. One of the walls turns dark and chimes for a few seconds, then lights up with the friendly, age-lined face of the Antichrist.

Beelzebub considers this ordinary Englishman who’s at once unknown and familiar. They first set eyes on him sixty-three years ago, a wet, white, wrinkled thing like a large maggot. It felt like they’d fought a small war to get him out of their body, and they were unimpressed with the result. But they reminded themselves he was the Beginning of the End, and they sent him off to Earth in a basket with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Eleven years later they saw him again, an insolent half-grown boy with no sense of the Great Plan and no respect for authority. It was as if a maggot had defied all the laws of biology to pupate into a cockroach instead of a fly. Beelzebub was bewildered, outraged—and strangely appreciative of Gabriel, the only other being on that madhouse of an airfield who _understood_.

Now they’re seeing Adam for the third time in his sixties, gray streaking his cherubic curls, laugh lines around his eyes. He looks wholly content.

“Hullo, Crowley! Aziraphale,” he says. “How’s things? I’ve got a few minutes before one of the grandkids gets dropped off and I’ll be stuck babysitting.”

“Hello, my dear.” Aziraphale beams at him. “We have some guests who’d like to speak with you. I don’t think it will take too long.” He motions Beelzebub and Gabriel forward. “Do you remember, er—”

“Oh, I remember you two.” Adam’s smile hardens. “You wanted me to end the world.”

“That’zz uzz.” Beelzebub gestures toward the floor, or rather, through it. “Remember zzomeone elzze you met that day?”

“Sure,” says Adam coolly. “Haven’t got anything to do with _him_ anymore.”

“Well, I don’t either. I mean, not now.” They stumble over the words, wondering how to explain. _After I fucked Satan and spawned you, I fell in love with an archangel and my ex tore off my wings?_

For once, they’re glad when Gabriel speaks up. “We fought him on Earth yesterday, the two of us. Just barely won.”

“Wicked!” Adam’s eyes light up and he looks like a kid again. “Is there video?”

“I don’t think so,” says Gabriel. “But he might come after us again. Can you . . . prevent that?”

Adam spins his chair in a lazy circle. When he’s facing them again, he’s wearing a canny look. “I know a bit about you two. Been shagging for most of my life, haven’t you? And now you want me to get my ex-dad off your backs? Sure. I can do that.”

His utter confidence, free of braggadocio, makes Beelzebub let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. Then Adam raises his eyebrows. “Why should I?”

“Well, because it’s the right thing to do!” says Gabriel, sounding offended. Beelzebub digs an elbow into his ribs. They’d told him about this part, but of course he’s glossed it over.

“You helped thezze two.” They jab a thumb toward Aziraphale and Crowley. “Becauzze you’re all on the zzame zzide. The zzide of the world. You don’t want it to end.”

“And it’s not going to,” agrees Adam. “Made sure of that, didn’t I?”

“You might think zzo. But Heaven and Hell are zztill zzet on having a war, any war. Gabriel and I made zzure of _that_. We wanted to dezztroy your precziouzz Earth.” They pause, watching Adam frown. They need this to work better than the last time they tried to convince him to do something. They don’t try to smile. Instead, with great force of will, they shed their sarcasm and ennui to address him with all the sincerity they can muster. “But I guezz we’re on your zzide now.”

Adam raises one eyebrow. “That’s quite the defection.”

Gabriel winces, but Beelzebub just stares the kid down. “Yezz.”

For a while nobody speaks, and Beelzebub wonders if this is a staring contest, but Adam blinks several times and doesn’t seem to lose. Finally he says, “Swear.”

“Fuck,” says Beelzebub.

He laughs. “No. Swear that you mean it. That you’re on the side of the world. Not just that you won’t try to end it, but that you’ll protect it. Like those guys.” Beelzebub glances over to see Crowley do his annoying finger-waggle.

They grind their teeth. “Fine. I zzwear to protect Earth.”

“Come on, you gotta swear by something, don’t you?” Adam objects. “I don’t care what. Something that matters to you.”

Gabriel shakes Beelzebub’s shoulder gently. They turn to see that he’s raised his left hand. “Fine,” they snarl, slapping their palm against his. “I zzwear by the Archangel _Fucking_ Gabriel to protect the Earth and all its szhitty inhabitantzz. Happy?”

“And Gabriel?”

The archangel wraps his fingers around Beelzebub’s. “I swear by my own love for Beelzebub, for the Almighty, and for the Earth, to do the same.”

“Grozz,” mutters Beelzebub.

Gabriel clears his throat. “And, Adam? It’s possible that we’ve gotten in Heaven’s bad books, too. Is there any chance you can—?”

“No problem.” He closes his eyes, moves his hands, and— “It’s done.”

“Appa! Appa!” Tiny shrieks come over the audio a few seconds before a miniature human hurtles into view and climbs into Adam’s lap. It squirms around to stare at the screen. “Oo dat?”

“I’m talking to some old friends,” he says, patting it fondly. “And some new ones.”

“Fens,” the human maggot says thoughtfully. Then it turns to grab Adam’s face. “Weeedame!”

“Yes, yes, I’ll read to you. Go find a book, all right?” It slides back to the floor and disappears again. Adam gives the small group in the cottage a wry smile. “That buys us about eight seconds. Pepper and I were thinking of a trip to the sea next weekend, shall we stop by?”

“Please do,” says Aziraphale warmly. “You can take some bread off our hands. Crowley’s been baking far too much.”

“First complaint I’ve heard,” mumbles the demon, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder.

The grandchild toddles back into view, dragging a book nearly as large as itself. Adam scoops up both child and book. “Where’d you find a Bible?” he asks, ruffling the little one’s hair. “Well, get ready for some editorializing.”

He looks back at the screen, eyes traveling from one person-shaped entity to the next, ending on Beelzebub. “See you around the world,” he says, and snaps his fingers.

The cottage wall goes back to being just a wall, hung with paintings.

Gabriel, predictably, is the first to speak. “If Adam’s a grandfather, Beelz, then you’re—”

“Don’t. Do not. I’m fucking zzeriouzz, do not even think it.”

He laughs and hugs them. Aziraphale putters into the kitchen to put on the kettle and liberate a slice of bread, while Crowley leans on the pass-through and casts an appraising eye over Gabriel and Beelzebub. “So we’ve got an archangel and a Hell-prince on the side of the world. Not bad for a day’s work.”

“I’m not a prinzze anymore,” says Beelzebub. Damn. That was supposed to sound irate, not melancholy.

Gabriel cups their face in his hands and kisses their forehead. “You’ll always be my prince.”

This is so revolting Beelzebub can’t think of anything to say. Half their flies settle on Gabriel’s face and hair, buzzing affectionately.

“Sentimental slop,” observes Crowley with vicious glee. “Where are you two headed now?” The question comes with a clear implication that his preferred answer would be _far away_.

“I thought of LA, for a start,” says Gabriel. “We could find an apartment near Beelz’s favorite coffee shop.”

“Ah, America,” says Aziraphale.

“How _cinematographic_,” says Crowley. “What’ll you do there?”

Beelzebub smiles slowly. “Run for offizze, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note: I mentioned Pepper because I adore her, and I think that she and Adam would keep in touch and do stuff like take outings to the beach, not because I necessarily ship the two of them. There are other solid Adam ships, and I wanted to leave this bit open to reader interpretation. =)
> 
> There’s gonna be an epilogue, because I can’t not...


	8. The Quarrel of the Universe Let Be

“You were so good for me, Beelz. You took that so well.”

“Szhut up.” 

“Can I get you anything else? Some water?”

“I don’t need fucking aftercare!”

The demon glares and slurps a marshmallow caramel mocha, burrowing deeper into their blanket. It’s not the awful white one from Michael; it’s a custom-designed black velvet luxury that shimmers with iridescence. Gabriel gave it to them on the first anniversary of their move to LA.

He tucks an extra fold of the blanket around their legs. “But it was so hard for you. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“For fuck’zz zzake, Gabriel, you didn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” He smiles with just a hint of cruelty, and Beelzebub could fall in love with him all over again. “That’s why it was so hard.”

Gabriel spent half the night making sweet and tender love to them, and they’re still not sure if they loved it or hated it. Less than an hour in, Beelzebub was cursing him with all the savagery a former prince of Hell could command, and by the end of the second hour they were reduced to incoherent pleading. They kept grabbing and clawing at Gabriel, trying to hurry him up, so he tied their wrists—oh so gently, oh so carefully—to the bedposts with soft silk. When he finally, _finally_ slid inside them, they cried like a fucking child. And all the time he kept telling them how wonderful they are and how much he loves them.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against their cheek. “You truly are magnificent, you know.”

Beelzebub’s teeth snap at his hand. “If you’re trying to help me recover from your zzaccharine idea of zzex, how exzactly is it uzzeful to give me more zztupid complimentzz?”

Gabriel leans back and looks at them thoughtfully. “I see your point.” He raises an eyebrow. “Want me to rough you up?”

_Yes,_ they think. _Later._ “No,” they say aloud.

His voice softens. “Want me to leave you alone?”

_Never. Not ever._ “Yezz.”

“You got it. I’ll be in the kitchen, okay?” He stands up and crosses their spacious living room. Nude except for white boxer briefs, he’s striking against the dark picture window that looks out on the lights of the city. He pauses there with a knowing grin, letting Beelzebub appreciate the view, before he disappears into the kitchen.

Beelzebub sits on the couch, fuming, for about thirty seconds. “Gabriel!”

The archangel’s head pops around the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Come back.”

Gabriel returns to the couch with a plate of fancy chocolates—a peace offering. He puts it on the coffee table and sits back down. Beelzebub wriggles up next to him, spilling hot coffee on both the blanket and his naked chest. They’d gladly have done it on purpose, but it is, in fact, an accident, so they say, “Zzorry.”

He waves away the burn, the stain, and the apology. “Want to watch TV?”

That sounds perfect. “Juzzt not the debate again.”

“Can’t stand to see yourself get trounced?” Gabriel snaps the screen on, and of course it’s some ignorant pundit prophesying the end of the world because a degenerate like B. L. Zebub got on the mayoral ticket.

“By all the ratingzz, I won that round,” Beelzebub retorts. With a snap of _their_ fingers, the video switches to a different talking head, bemoaning the day that anyone took Gabriel Arch seriously as a candidate.

The two of them are playing local politics for now, running neck and neck for city mayor. But that’s just an opening move. Beelzebub figures the best way to protect the world is to get in a position of power, and despite all the disasters of the twenty-first century—the riots, the bioterrorists, the secession crisis—the American presidency is still one of the world’s most powerful positions.

They’re interested to see what happens when the media figure out that B. L. Zebub and Gabriel Arch are living together. It’ll be great publicity.

“All right, no politics,” says Gabriel, scrolling through the latest TV offerings. “Hey, there’s a new show called _The Odd Couple_. Looks fun. Shall we give it a try?”

“It'zz a remake.” Beelzebub arranges Gabriel’s arm around their shoulders. “It’ll be terrible.”

“Just like the rest of the world,” he laughs, pulling them close, and they settle in to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from the same stanza of the Rubaiyat as the fic’s title:
> 
> _But leave the Wise to wrangle, and with me_  
_The Quarrel of the Universe let be:_  
_And, in some corner of the Hubbub couch'd,_  
_Make Game of that which makes as much of Thee._
> 
> Thank you so so so much for reading, for your kudos and your comments. It's a pure pleasure to write for this fandom. <3
> 
> P.S. The smut referenced at the start of this chapter is now available [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283632/chapters/53217931).


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